How comes he here, this small hobbit of the Shire,
a creature of woodlands and gardens,
whose escapade of stealing mushrooms
seems so long and far ago.
How comes he to be sitting at the feet of kings,
the talk and tides of war washing over his head.
How comes he here, so small and unnoticed
invisible it would seem to those who would discuss
the grand affairs unknown in hobbit realms.
He sits bewildered, crosslegged on the skins that line the floor
of his small tent, a bundle his only possession
alone, tormented by questions.
Where are they now, his companions:
Frodo and Sam gone into unknown perils, in Mordor,
Pippin, his merry voice now silenced by distance,
riding with Gandalf into lands he cannot picture.
And Strider, with Legolas and Gimli, attempting
paths no other man would choose
Paths of the Dead
where even the mighty dare not venture.
All, gone to their dooms.
Shall he escape their fate?
How comes he here,
To dark Dunharrow, whose song has long been lost,
sad Pukelmen the only remnant of an unknown time
like teeth along his path, vaguely threatening
the pavilion by the Fierenfeld;
caught in the midst of a time beyond his ken,
listening for his Theoden’s summon,
as esquire, to serve his Lord,
he waits in gloom.
How far from home he feels, and yet
the river flows more freely in his mind
and pleasures past are dim and shadowed.
How comes he here,
To see a such a one as Boromir, grey-eyed and tall
bow to his king, Lord of the Rohirrim,
bearing the red tipped arrow summoning all
to ride with strength and speed to Gondor.
He sees war creeping toward them with an insidious dark
that slips across the sky, sinking spirits.
His heart feels fear, but he knows his fate is tied,
his fealty, to Theoden.
How comes he here, afraid, resolved,
On grey Windfola as his hooves eat the ground,
Sitting lightly before Durnhelm, Eowyn
refusing to be left;
riding into shadow
as evil gathers its cloak around them
shrouding their path with rumours of war